Dust and Connect the Dots
by dontbesojaded
Summary: Sam ends up taking a walk around the house he owned with Diane, and running into some things he didn't really want to find. Multi-chapter. Takes place 2 or 3 years after the finale. Reviews are lovely!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Alright I know I need to finish "Way Back When", but I'm working on it I swear! Anyways this is for BFEOSAD again. I think I took some liberties by pretending they lived in the house longer than they actually did. So in this version I'm going to say they were in the house probably for 2-4 months before she left? Maybe a little bit less? Also, its got a few more chapters left in it. Reviews are lovely! **

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Dust and Connect the Dots

_"It is just human nature to take time to connect the dots, I know that. But I also know that there can be a day of reckoning when you wish you had connected the dots more quickly."_  
_-An Inconvenient Truth_

Red and blue lights reflected off the droplets of his windshield and the low moan of an ambulance echoed off in the distance. These were all trivial things to Sam.

The car's tires squealed in protest as he turned fast onto the next street, seemingly the Corvette had as much interest in going the short way home as he did. Or maybe, also like him, it was just getting old and tired.

"Yeah, I know. I don't want to see it either." Sam muttered under his breath, easing the rust red car around the next turn with an almost loving gentleness. What was he so afraid of? Why was his heart pounding so hard in his chest? He was going an easy 25 miles per hour and there was nothing he was going to see that should make him slow down. It was just a house, he could drive by with barely a glance in its direction.

"It's mostly empty anyways." He breathed, an attempt to sooth his frayed nerves. But it was "mostly" that was the operative word. It was "mostly" that had kept him going the long way back to his apartment for almost eight years. It was the prospect that there might still be some of her in there that kept him away, just like it was the loop of her signature next to his on the deed that kept him from selling it.

He could see it up ahead now, not looming, but sitting patiently as if it had been waiting for him. He knew that wasn't true. It had been waiting for _both_ of them. Sorry to disappoint, he thought bitterly.

He pulled into the driveway without meaning too, as easy and habitually as if he'd been doing it everyday of his life. He could imagine it: coming home everyday from work and pulling into this driveway, sleeping in this house, with this yard and this wi-. That was where the fantasy got stuck and frayed at the edges. A key piece was regretfully missing, even if everything else was in place. But Sam had the idea that the only piece that really mattered, was the one that could never seem to fall into its spot (and isn't it always?)

The car groaned again, already sensing that maybe this was a poor idea. Sam turned the key and the Corvette shuddered into silence. Without the headlights illuminating it, the house ceased to look inviting in anyway. Instead it looked cold and abandoned and _(haunted)_ it looked like a lonely house, if houses could feel.

Sam sat in the car and looked at it, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it was looking back. What was the harm in going in? They'd lived there so shortly that there really weren't any memories to run into, no skeletons in the closet. But way deep down he thought maybe thats what hurt the most, the what _could have_ been instead of what _had_ been.

He waited as the man-made heat slipped out of the car and was replaced by the fall's natural chill. He waited until he remembered that he still left a key under

-  
_the mat. He straightened up and brushed dirt off of his jeans, stretching his arms over his head and holding in a yawn. They'd been at this since seven, and apparently the house still wasn't quite up to her standards. She'd spent the day giving instructions, ordering Woody and Carla and Norm around like a military commander. But the day had turned into evening and the rest of their team had gone home. And they already were home. _

_It'd been his idea to put a spare key under the mat, like they had when he was a kid. She didn't object as he'd thought she might, so oddly involved with painting one patch of wall as she was; she had only shrugged._

_"Sam." She remarked in that sigh-like way she'd been doing a lot lately. It was the kind of way that made him want to respond with an only half mocking: _"Yes, dear?"

_"Yes, dear?"_

_"You don't think someone will break into our house? I mean, you don't think that isn't too obvious a hiding spot?"_

_She was looking up at him from where she was kneeling inside the foyer in old jeans and a shirt that was far too big, and come to think of it, was probably his. The paintbrush she was holding slightly aloft was dripping white spots onto the floor._

_He leaned against the frame of their open door. "What would you suggest?"_

_She shrugged and blew hair out of her eyes. "Well, I don't know. Maybe something with a bit more originality. Like for example, I was reading-Oh, damn!" A droplet of paint had caught her attention and she glanced down at where the drops on the floor had begun to dry. "Why didn't you say something, Sam? What a mess..."_

_He smiled from the door and watched her work herself into a panic for a moment before intervening. "__Hey, leave it. I kind of like it."_

_She looked up at him, appalled. "Oh, no. It'll stick out like a sore thumb! It's atrocious."_

_"No, its original, its ours."_

_Her eye's went soft and she did that sigh-like thing with his name again. "Sam, that's very romantic."_

_"Yeah?"_

_She stood up and walked to where he still stood on the threshold, twining her arms around his neck, and putting her lips near his. "Yes...but," she said,"There's nothing to stop us from covering it up with a rug."_

_He rolled his eyes and let her pull him in_

side the house. The key had turned easily in the lock and now he was standing in the barren foyer. Dust danced in the light from the open door, puffing up off the carpet and swirling around him as he stepped inside.

He toed aside the left corner of the ratty old rug, bits of it eaten up by moths and God knows what else. Six almost perfectly round white dots were splattered in the clean area where it had lain for nearly a decade. For a horrible instant he could see her with the evening light on her face and her voice doing that sigh thing with his name _(sam, that's very romantic)_. But then he flipped the rug back over to cover up the _(our)_ imperfection, and he could breathe again.

"Atrocious." he murmured under his breath and pretended like it didn't hurt.

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TBC. Thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So guys, I did it again. I created a story that has a mind of its own and I have no idea where its going. Sorry this has taken so very long. Reviews are lovely. **

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Sam moved towards the kitchen, wary of the murky blackness. They hadn't lived here long enough for him to be able to navigate this house in the dark. They hadn't even lived here long enough for it to feel familiar, and yet somehow it still felt like her. She'd always had a way of slipping in where she was least wanted.

He didn't know what he was looking for, exactly. He only knew, as he ran his finger lightly over the thin veil of dust that littered the kitchen counter, that he didn't want to find it.

Maybe, he thought, he was searching for some sort of proof of their faultlessness, some sign that would reaffirm her as "the one that got away". In that case he was probably some sort of masochist.

Or perhaps he was looking for the opposite: a sign of how wrong it had all been (how wrong _they_ had been), and searching for some sort of redemption that would make him relieved he'd dodged that bullet.

His fingers found a chipped piece of ceramic on the counter, and he thought that neither of those ideas were right. He didn't have a hidden agenda, certainly no ulterior motives. He just wanted to look around. He was a casual tourist in this (_mausoleum_) museum. But she had once told him (on one of those seemingly everlasting trips to a never-ending art museum) that even the most careless visitors almost always stumble across something (_unwanted_) unexpected. Her words circled through his mind like a warning.

He ran his fingers over the smooth rim and then down the rigid, broken edge. It had probably once been a

_coffee cup from the shelf and poured the rest of the pot before turning to look at her. She was prattling on about french wine and fine china (or was it fine wine and french china?) And he was letting the heat of the coffee burn through the ceramic and into his palms. He felt claustrophobic, as if the walls of the house were closing in on him. With every word pertaining to "wedding" or "marriage" or "engagement" they inched closer and closer. _

_Her voice was fading to an annoying buzzing in his ears, almost gone completely except for the scattered french-sounding words in that haughty accent of hers._

_The coffee mug came crashing down on the tile floor. Slipped or thrown? It didn't matter, its mission had been accomplished. She abruptly stopped talking and a flicker of hurt showed on her face, as if she knew he'd done it on purpose. She leapt up from her chair._

_"Oh! Sam...!" She looked like she wanted to say more, something with respect to his general clumsy oafishness but she swallowed instead._

_"Here, let me get it," she said quietly when he made no motion to pick up the pieces._

_He glanced at her bare feet. "Don't touch it."_

_She knelt and waved him away with one hand and began collecting shards of his cup with the other._

_"I said don't touch it!" He moved towards her, and heard the rest of the mug break beneath his shoes. Grabbing her upper arm roughly, and he yanked her unceremoniously up from the floor._

_She looked up to meet his hot glare, her eyes wide and bewildered. If only for a moment, she was too stunned by his reaction to be angry. He dropped her arm guilty before she could wrench it away._

_She glanced down at where his fingers had left dull red marks until a line of bright red dripping through her closed fist caught her attention. She opened her hand slowly to release a piece of the cup. Its sharp edge had bit into her palm, and angry, jagged slice ran across her hand._

_"Oh," she remarked quietly._

_"Damn it, sweetheart. Here let me..." He fumbled lightly for her wrist, and she twisted away._

_"Don't touch me."_

_"Honey, let me just help you..." He reached for her again._

_"I said don't touch me," she repeated, a sharp mocking cadence seeping into her words. She turned her back towards him, putting her bleeding hand under the tap._

_He reached for her again, but the fabric of her shirt slid through his fingers as she side-stepped to avoid him. He let her slip away, moving down the hall without a word._

_Diane turned around, pale and stricken. But he was already_

gone. Everything was gone. Or maybe it had looked like this for eight years, he'd just forgotten how totally empty it was.

What had been their cosy bedroom was now a drafty, cathedral like room. It was of decent size, all high ceilings and tall windows that carried echoes and tossed even the smallest noise all around the room.

And, boy, did that bring back a few things. But nothing that felt particularly appropriate to dwell on right this moment.

He pushed past a stack of boxes that were next to the door and heard one fall behind him. It sounded full. He didn't turn around to see what had spilled out, instead making he made his way to the single piece of furniture in the room. An overturned night stand, dented on the side that had hit the floor, bent and distorted, with the dark wood covered in a thin layer of dust. It seemed reflect the feeling of the whole house: forlorn, abandoned. The night stand appeared to be a causality of someone else's war, purchased, placed, used, then slammed to the ground and forgotten. Collateral damage.

Sam crouched next to it, righted it and unearthed a whole new colony of dust mites. But seeing it standing up right made him feel a little bit better somehow. It became less of a reminder that they_ had_ been here, once. When it stood solemnly in the corner he could imagine it had never been used, maybe it had never been touched. With that in mind he could forget about the fact that it had been heavy - like the drawer with the little silver knob maybe had never been emptied. But when it had lain on the ground his mind had to think of scenarios as to why it was laying there. It was like a gag reflex - they just sort of bubbled up. And they were scenarios that involved a certain blonde's slim hip knocking it over as she packed her things.

He stood up and surveyed the room. Empty. Un-lived in. He didn't feel anything. No regret, no nostalgia, nothing. It could have been any room, in any house. His gaze fell back to the stand. She must have been rushing. She was never so careless as to leave evidence of her klutziness lying around. She kept that little secret hidden away behind woman's pride and a ballerina's body. Did a shape-up job of it too. To look at her, you wouldn't know the woman could slip, trip, drop and break more things in a day than any one you'd ever meet. He used to tease that her parent's should have named her Grace, just to be ironic.

So why had she left the night stand? She was in a hurry. She was rushing so much in fact, that she hadn't even bothered to pick it up. Rushing to get away from him. He didn't consider the plausibility of any other options (maybe the movers had knocked it over when he'd sent them to pack up the house?), he'd latched onto this explanation. She'd slammed into it and not given it another thought, so occupied was her mind with vignettes of her and Sumner squirreled away in some little Maine cabin.

He pushed the thought away, shook his head. He'd given up blaming her a long time ago. He'd given up in general a long time ago, and he seemed to have found an odd solace in it. There was peace in not really caring. And there was no reason to disturb that now. Even as he was thinking this he was moving towards the stand, he was making a damn good case but the jury was already back with a verdict.

He was going to open the damn thing. Because, no matter how it had happened, it _had_ been bumped. And it _had_ been heavy. And they _had_ been here, once. And when it came to Diane you couldn't just ignore things that were staring you straight in the face. Or maybe you could, he'd tried. But he never had succeeded, and there was no reason to break his losing streak now. She wasn't even here and she was beating him. Somehow he didn't find that surprising in the slightest.

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TBC


End file.
